Seagulls
by Got Tea
Summary: Then, into the air between them, Boyd makes a quiet request. One that baffles Grace. "Give me your hand, please." A prompt response from Joodiff. Enjoy.


It's been a while and a few curveballs in the journey of life, but here's some silly new fluff generated by a prompt from Joodiff. :) xx

* * *

 **Seagulls**

 **…**

Brine. The smell of it always makes her relax, and as she picks her way across the dry, shifting sand towards the cliff face that marks the end of the small stretch of beach, Grace allows her mind to empty of everything but the sound and the smell of the sea, of the waves rolling relentlessly up onto the warm, gritty sand.

Flexing her toes a little as she walks, she digs them in, feeling the light scouring sensation against her delicate flesh. Overhead the sun is hiding behind fluffy white clouds, and although there are a host of the darker, murkier variety rolling in, for now the temperature is still steady and she's wearing only a thin cardigan on top of her blouse to keep the slight chill at bay. Jeans rolled up to her ankles, she ventures bravely towards the waves, dipping her toes in and gasping at how cold the water is.

Too cold to remain, sadly.

Leaving the edge, Grace makes her way back to the dry, untouched grains, burying her feet into them and stopping to stare out over the water, her arms wrapping around her waist and her breathing slowing, deepening. She can see no-one else in either direction as she looks up and down the small stretch of coast, and she delights in it.

There's something really rather magical about being able to potter around on the beach barefoot, she muses. About the cawing of gulls and the crashing of the waves. About the complete lack of hustle and bustle, of chaos and people, of demands on her time and person. For the first time in days, she feels truly relaxed. Free.

All the weight of stress and pain and injury has slipped away, leaving only peace and steadiness in her heart. It sounds quaint, even to her, but it's true, and she feels so much better for it. Nature, it seems, really is the cure for so many things.

She's lucky. Lucky to be standing here, lucky to be appreciating the gorgeous blue of the sea, the comforting feeling of the sand, the light breeze, the unseasonably warm air of the early April day. Lucky to be fit and healthy and moving past the latest hurdle life has thrown in her way. An accident, without a doubt, but a significant obstacle, nonetheless.

Today is not a day to dwell on any of that, though. Instead Grace watches two gulls skid onto the ground voicing raucous and indignant cries as the last remnants of a big, far-reaching wave ebb back into the swirling mass of the ocean. A fight ensues, the prize a tasty morsel stolen from somewhere high up on the cliff face, and for a moment there is nothing but the thwack of powerful wings beating each other and slapping against the ground, scouring lines and imprints in the wet sand. Then, a victor, rising up into the sky and speeding away with his treat hastily wolfed down and a shrill, victorious cry. The loser puffs himself up, preens his feathers and then finally takes off in the opposite direction. Goes hunting once more.

' _Today I will be happier than a seagull with a stolen chip.'_

It's a sentiment from a magnet stuck to her fridge door, and as she watches the birds swoop and caw, darting here and there, Grace smiles. She feels good, and it is wonderful.

"Grace!"

The bellow comes from the cliff. From the small cave tucked into it, in fact. She turns to face the source of her shattered peace, lifts a hand in a vague wave. Hears, "Hurry up! For God's sake, woman, I'm bloody starving."

It's an effort not to roll her eyes, but then, it's just so typical of the man. For as long as they've been acquainted, he's never been one to show patience when food is at hand.

"Finally!" is the exasperated greeting she receives as she steps into the cave. Then, as he looks at her feet, "Don't get sand all over the blanket."

"You're so charming, Peter," she sighs, subsiding down onto said blanket and rubbing her feet together in an effort to clean them a little.

It's far from a traditional picnic, this little expedition he's organised, but it's still lovely. There's a thermos of hot tea, which is very welcome as darker clouds that have been threatening the day finally begin to roll in and the warmth from the sun disappears, and another of thick, hearty soup with crusty bread rolls and chunks of cheese to dunk into it.

"I thought it'd be better than sandwiches," he shrugs, as she accepts a bowl from him. "And warmer."

The unspoken hint of something in his tone sticks with her as she tears off a chunk of bread and dips it into the bowl. "You worry too much," she tells him, voice light as she savours the taste. This isn't tinned stuff he's hurriedly heated up; no, he's made it himself, she can tell.

Boyd stops dead, his spoon halfway to his mouth, in danger of dripping food all down his sweater. The look in his eyes makes her sigh.

"Don't," she tells him, wanting to forestall any argument. "We're having too nice a day for you to descend into a sea of guilt. It's over and done with; life moves on."

He won't accept it, she knows. Can't accept that he is blameless, that if anything Spencer and Sarah are at fault for defying orders, for not trusting her, but that's all pointless now too. If not quite at one hundred percent yet, she's certainly getting there.

Surprisingly though, he says nothing. Simply nods his head towards the opening of the cave where the sky is darkening rapidly and the sea is now churning and frothing as the day truly descends into the promised chilliness. Clouds are scudding across the sky as the wind picks up, whistling across the rock, but mercifully missing them in their tucked away, protected position. Even so, though, Grace unties her jumper from her waist and wrestles into it, then rolls down the legs of her jeans.

As she turns back, another surprise awaits her. From somewhere in the depths of the picnic bag, Boyd has produced a trio of candles, thrust them in the sand and is lighting them.

"Feeling romantic?" she teases, voice deliberately soft and light.

A sideways glance, dark eyes that are amused. "And if I am?"

It's typical of him, to reply to her not with an answer, but with a question. "Well," she shrugs, "I can complain if you want me to…"

"Grace!"

"Peter…"

They hold the stare-down for long seconds, neither yielding to the other, and then quite suddenly they dissolve into laughter together. It's just the way they are, they way they've always been. Entirely naturally, they lean together, lips meeting in an effortless brush of sensual affection.

Their easy chatter resumes as they continue to eat, and somehow they gravitate together, until she is almost tucked into his side, half hypnotised by the bouncing, flickering light the candles are projecting onto the rocky walls.

The food disappears, and the empty containers are packed away again as the sky darkens and the wind howls, the waves growing and battering the coast. A natural silence falls between them, as they both stare out, lost in contemplation of the unrestrained, untamed power and force of nature.

Then, into the air between them, Boyd makes a quiet request. One that baffles Grace. "Give me your hand, please."

Twisting away from him, she looks into his face, confused. "Why?"

His eyes are level, too level, and it sends a chill down her spine. An atmosphere has suddenly developed in their cosy little cave, and it immediately sets her nerves on edge. Boyd, though, is utterly calm as he holds out his hand, waiting.

"Why?" she pushes, natural instinct wanting an explanation before offering any action.

He's unbelievably calm, and that is even more unnerving. "Because," he tells her, slowly but seriously, "I'm trying to ask you to marry me, and I need your hand."

Rarely is she stunned into silence, but this time Grace is simply to astonished to speak. Finally, eventually, she manages a somewhat muted, "You what?"

"You heard me," he tells her, nodding.

She can't compute his words. Can't grasp them and turn them into something that has some sort of sensible meaning. "Peter, I don't…" she trails off, confused.

"I'm asking you to marry me, Grace. To spend the rest of your life with me, as my wife."

"But…"

He shakes his head, still almost creepily calm. "No buts, just the question as it is. Will you marry me?"

Reality seems skewed, but as she sits and stares at him, she can almost see it begin to straighten itself out. She's still sitting in the cave with him, still listening to the waves and the wind, still breathing in the scent of brine, still tasting the last remnants of the herbs he used in the soup. Still watching the flicker of the candles that are slowly, slowly burning down towards the sand into which they are wedged.

It's a monumental question, and as it seeps its way into her brain and unscrambles itself into some kind of logical meaning, a thousand and one queries of her own leap up in response, clamouring for attention, for clarification.

Slowly, gradually, one single thought dominates all the others, and it's not one that leaves her feeling comfortable.

"Tell me you're not asking me just because you thought I was going to die?" she queries, fearful of his answer.

Dark eyes glare back at her, his brows drawing into a tight frown. "Of course I'm not," he growls. "But I'm not going to deny it's a factor."

"And what are the other factors?"

"Why does that matter?" That heavy frown is setting in, real irritation building, but she can't not follow her own heart to soothe his. Can't ignore the voice inside her that needs to know; not for something as serious as this.

"I'm not trying to wind you up, Peter," she mollifies, "I just need to know."

"Why?" he demands. Then, as she responds, he answers his own question, his words running together in the air with hers. "Because you just do."

"Because I just do."

He lets out a loud, exasperated sigh. "Life is too short, Grace. Now would you just give me your damn hand so I can put the ring on your finger?"

"No." She shakes her head, resolute. "No, that's not a real answer. Tell me why you're suddenly asking."

If looks could kill, she thinks, wondering if maybe she's pushed him too far this time. To his credit though, Boyd takes a long, slow breath before answering. "Because I love you," he growls. "And because life really is too bloody short. I want this – us – to be permeant. I don't want it to be a naughty secret anymore, something hidden in the shadows. I don't care who knows now, I just want you. Forever."

"But what about work? What about Maureen Smith?"

"I don't give a flying fuck about Maureen Smith!"

"But she could make our lives miserable," she points out, feeling it necessary to remind him of the power the other woman holds.

His glare is truly something to behold, she thinks, as he offers a resolute, "She wouldn't dare. Not over this."

"Peter…"

"No. No, Grace. Maureen Smith won't dare challenge me on this. She owes me one, and besides, there are plenty of other ways for her to make my life miserable."

"She owes – "

"Yes, she does, but that's a story for another day. If we could get back to the matter at hand please?"

Impish, she smirks up at him. "At hand… quite literally…"

His growl is menacing, but secretly she enjoys it. He's really quite something when he's riled up. Then, "Why can't you just say yes?" he demands, though the look in his eyes is far from ferocious. In fact, she's sure there's hint of amusement there, along with the frustration.

"Would you really want me to?" she returns, giving him a pointed look.

For a moment he hesitates, clearly thinking about it, but then he shakes his head. "Just this once," he growls, "I'd like a straight answer. A yes, even."

"But if I did that would be so predictable…"

She's caught him there, Grace can see. They've had this argument before. He gets bored easily, and she never bores him. That's why he stays, because she is a constant challenge for him, because she knows how to get under his skin just enough to wind him up before bringing him back down. Because she reads him and outmanoeuvres him in a way that no one else has ever done. Because she makes his life interesting.

The same is true in reverse of course, for she could never settle for the dull and painfully steady, the easy. And he knows that as he leans into her personal space, a feigned scowl fixed on his face as he takes hold of her hand and slides the ring into place, not bothering to wait and see what she has to say about it.

"Very pretty," she observes, admiring the simple elegance of the gleaming diamond set into the smooth silver band now wrapped around her ring finger.

"But..?" Boyd ventures, a knowing look in his gaze and he stares down at her.

She smirks up at him. He really does know her very well, and to her that is the most important thing. "Okay," she finally agrees. "If I have to."

"You do. I've decided."

"I see. Like that is it?"

Hazel eyes twinkle, even as he nods gravely at her. "Indeed. And when we get home later, I'm going to kiss you thoroughly, and show you exactly why you'd be foolish to keep objecting or arguing with me about the matter."

It's an effort not to let her lips twitch. "I see," she repeats, tone measured and level. "Well, lucky for you, I've also decided something."

His expression shifts to suspicious, and she likes it. He's really is so easy to rile, and that alone is grounds for spending the rest of her life with him, she thinks. Slightly guarded, he asks, "Well, what is it? Out with it, woman, before I die of suspense."

Triumphant, Grace allows her mirth to break through, lets him see the twinkle in her eyes. "I'm not prepared to wait until we get home for you to kiss me thoroughly. I want a kiss now. A good one."

And he laughs, long and loud and from deep within his chest. "Well," he purrs, still chuckling lightly as he tugs her towards him, "that's a decision I think I can live with…"

Outside the sea is still battering the beach and the wind is still howling. A seagull, maybe even one of the two from earlier, picks its way over the sand and into the cave, out of the rain that is beginning to fall, big cold wet drops plummeting heavily from the darkness overhead. The seagull stops for a moment and tilts its head to the side, considers them both in silence. Then it takes another step, and another and another until it can crane its neck and clamp its beak around a forgotten crust of bread. Treat wolfed down, it filches another and then settles in the mouth of the cave, legs folded up underneath it, wings tucked in tightly but ready to fly at a moment's notice. Then it simply sits and watches the two of them with something a little like idle curiosity.

Neither Grace nor Boyd notice their visitor, they're far too preoccupied. And happy.


End file.
